


No White Satin (Companion piece to Tears Are Not Enough)

by Historical_Muse



Series: A Knight's Tale [3]
Category: A Knight's Tale
Genre: Chaucer's POV, Descriptions of sexual activity, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 02:36:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/669268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Historical_Muse/pseuds/Historical_Muse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chaucer sees Jocelyn go to Will’s tent – and isn’t impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No White Satin (Companion piece to Tears Are Not Enough)

And so:  Guinevere comes to Lancelot...

...And I fear that Guinevere will not find the courteous knight for whom she hopes.  Nay, I fear she shall find him wanting. 

For like loyal, hot-tempered Wat I have shared William’s bed and body and I know that this delicate little flower is going to be disappointed in what she finds...

If you were to stand here before me now, what would I say to you?

Ah, Jocelyn – I would tell you the truth...though I doubt if you would wish to hear it.

Because you don’t _want_ to hear that your mumming knight is not the chaste gallant of courtly tales, do you?  That even though you go to offer yourself to him now, what he will ask of you – if his wounds allow it – may not be what you wish to give.

You think I don’t know you well enough to be able to say such things -- to judge you so harshly on so brief an acquaintance.  But I’ve met women like you before, my dear – I’ve seen nothing about you to make me believe that you’re any different to any of those coy-eyed maidens who play fast and loose with a man’s affections and give no thought to the harvest of chaos they might reap.

And were you to ask me...  No, you’re not evil – I do not think you could ever be that.  But naive and selfish...yes, those I know you can be.

And the way you manipulated my golden prince – the man you claim to _love_ , for Christ’s sake – so that he risked and nearly lost his life for you today, simply so that he might prove he loved you?  And then, on a whim, you bade him win for you so that by this he might also prove his love!  _That_ is what you call fit behaviour from a woman worthy of my fiery angel?

For you are _not_ worthy of him, Jocelyn.  No woman who could so play with his heart could be worthy of such beauty and honesty, as he possesses.  You asked him to shame himself in front of the crowd and in front of all those of us who love him – _his friends_.  Have you ever stopped to think about _us_ , my lady?  About little Kate?  About good, decent Roland, or fiery Wat, or me?  Do you ever wonder what he feels for _us_ , Jocelyn?  No, I doubt if you ever do – and so will never understand why I hate you!

You are too immature, too full of dreams of noble knights and the honest son of toil who dragged himself up from the gutter to become worthy of your love.  But William had – _has_ no need to believe that to become a true knight he must first haul himself from the slough of Cheapside to become ennobled.  No.  For if by word, or thought, or deed a man is ennobled, then my beautiful William has proved himself a true knight over and over again.  With his gentle, honest heart and open soul, he has shown to me and to his friends that he is as worthy of the title “knight” as any man born to the ranks of the nobility.  _More_ so, perhaps.

And the irony of all this is that well born as you are, you will never be worthy of him, Jocelyn.  But I, a humble scribbler with a few books and dreams to my name, _I_ am worthy of him:  far more worthy than you could ever know.  And every day I praise and thank God that this is so.

Despite all your good breeding, your beauty, your kind heart, innate goodness and your innocence, you will never know what it is to possess or be possessed by such a glorious soul.  But I, Geoffrey Chaucer, for all my faults before God, _do_ know.  Because I know what William needs most and I can give it to him.

Oh, you can deny me all you wish – ensnare and drag my words down into the dirt and tear them apart like the jennet I believe you are – but you will never destroy the truth of them.  Because I see you – I see your eyes and I can read what I see in them as easily as any word written on page.  And I know that you are in love with the idea of loving this sun-haloed force of nature – but I know, too, that all that you are could never fully embrace all that he is.  Could never know what it is that he most needs and could never give him, even if you did.

Aye, there’s a thought.  What _he_ needs...what I alone can give to him!  Again and again I tell you this – and still I wonder if you know what it is that I mean...

Does he love you?  Oh yes, he loves you.  Loves you as he loved the beauty and terror of the Mass as a child.  But that love for you is born of innocence and worship and awe in the face of the unattainable.  The radiant face of the Virgin reflected in the eyes of Her worshippers and the bells, candles and incense that weave their magic and bring man closer to the love of Almighty God.  All that Will feels when he looks at you.

But that’s not enough.

When it comes to earthly, human love – the love born of wanting, needing; the love born of demanding the rough kiss of skin against skin and flesh within flesh and the hunger of kisses and the music of groans and sighs...  _Ah, sweet Jesu_ – of fucking and being fucked...

The love born of knowing the truth and not shying away from it...

He may tell us that he says his rosary to you; but don’t think that this gives you some exalted position over the rest of us ‘common’ people, my lady.

Have you not guessed, yet?  Do you really not know?  Or have you guessed and have no desire to face the truth?

For he kneels to me too, Jocelyn.  Except that when he’s on his knees before _me_ , he kneels in worship – but not in prayer.  The prayers he mumbles with his lips and tongue are in praise of the flesh he’s made hard with his kisses and caresses, his hands raised not in honour of God but to extol the virtues of the fullness he takes so eagerly into his mouth, fingers plundering my arse as he makes his unhallowed obeisance.  In _our_ unholy communion he takes not the body of Christ, but mine.  Drinks not the blood of Christ, but instead tastes the salt of my sweat and my semen and the fire of my kisses.  Raises his hands not in supplication to God, but to clasp my arse or my balls or my cock.  Everything that most pleases him is his to take.

But when that sweet mouth of his isn’t more profitably occupied, I’ve heard him cry out to God.  Oh yes.  Cry out to God, to the Holy Virgin, to Christ, to the whole company of saints and blessed souls and to all the thrones and powers and dominions of angels when his naked body is soaked with sweat and covered with the marks from my teeth and lips and hands – when he’s being fucked.  _Especially_ when he’s being fucked and his legs are wrapped around me, heels drumming against my back, his fingers digging in hard as he bucks and howls, his whole body one pure exaltation of wanton, whorish abandon.

And I’m not sure you’d want him _then_ , Jocelyn.  I’m not sure that a well-bred, highborn lady of such exquisite sensitivities as yourself would be able to handle him in the heat of his passion.  He’s no gentle, soft-mannered knight when he’s fucking, my lady.  On the contrary; I can think of no one _less_ of a perfect, genteel knight when it comes to fucking – not even wild-tempered Wat, as I learned long ago.

And he leaves marks – bruises, scratches and bites that would be hard to explain in the morning...  When he’s marked my skin, my lady, I wear these wounds with pride – as badges of honour and proof of my power to give him the gratification he needs.  Of my skill in knowing where best to touch and stroke and kiss and lick.  Of how to ride him until his writhing body turns to molten sunlight beneath me, his head thrown back as he howls my name.  Of knowing when to sink my teeth into the soft flesh of his neck as my own need compels me to ride him harder and more roughly until I too loose the reins of my senses and let myself be thrown into the anarchy of our pleasure...

Would I say all this to you if you were here before me?  Am I indeed so cruel?

Aye, maybe I would, for I have it in me to be cruel if I so choose.  With Will it is not a cruelty that demands fear; unless he asks me I have no wish to bring pain, or draw blood.  Rather, it is more a subtle way of setting free the spirit, of letting him travel wherever the demands of his hunger take him and knowing that he will always be safe if he is in my arms.

Whatever cruelty there may be in me pleases him, my lady.

And so – I wonder where that leaves _you_?

Bed him well, my lady, bed him well...but if he’ll have you, I fear you may not like what you find when you do...

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *


End file.
